PS 1059 
.B22 C6 
1877 
Copy 1 



\ 

y 



COMRADES. 



A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. 



BY 



GEORGE M. BAKER, 



f 



This play is protected by law, and can only be performed by 
special arrangement with the author. 




PRINTED, NOT PUBLISHED. 

1877. 



COSTUMES. 

Royal. Age 35. Act I. Velvet breakfast jacket, light pants, dark vest, dark 
curly wig slightly sprinkled with gray, dark mustache, and side whiskers. Act II. 
Dark suit, thin travelling " ulster," slouch hat. Act III. Dark mixed suit. 

Matt. Age 45. Act I. Ragged suit, with army cap, full gray ragged beard, 
rough gray wig; red nose, and general make up of a drunkard. Act II. Riding 
coat, light pants, riding boots, wide collar rolled over coat, open at throat; neat 
gray wig, long gray side whiskers ; face clean shaved, a little florid, whole ap- 
pearance neat. Act III. 1st dress. Old ragged army overcoat, buttoned at 
throat, slouch hat whiskers and wig as in act II, but chin rough and dirty, nose 
red, general rough appearance. 2d dress, on last appearance, same as in act II, 
chin clean and smooth ; general appearance the same as in act II. 

Marcus. Age 24. Act I. Genteel riding suit, with boots and whip. Act II. 
Darksuit, and travelling overcoat or ulster. Act III. Handsome mixed full suit. 
Hair and mustache natural. 

Simon. Age 25. Act I. Fashionable "loud" spring suit, red neck-tie, white 
hat, red wig. Act II. Dark pants, green apron, short green jacket. Act III. 
Light pants, blue coat with brass buttons, black hat, large gold chain, diamond 
pin a la Tweed ; dark pants and white gaiters. 

May. Act I. Tasty morning dress, with pretty morning cap. Act II. After- 
noon dress, muslin; apron and gloves on entrance. Act III. Evening dress, 
liandsome and tasty. 

Bessie. Three dresses of the same character to contrast with May. 

Najicy. Act I. Balmoral Peticoat, calico dress, pinned up ; sleeves rolled 
up. Act II. Neat muslio dress, with apron. Act III. Brown dress, white col- 
lar and cuffs. 



CHARACTERS. 

Royal Manning. 

Matt Winsor, a tramp. 

Marcus Graves. 

Simon Stone, a Jack at all Trades. 

May Manning, "Rojr's Wife." 

Bessie Bradley. 

Nancy Nipper. 



COMRADES. 

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 



ACT I. 

Scene. — Room in Royal Manning's ho7nc. Doors c, open 
to gardejt; lo7ig window in flat ; L., with cttrtains, d?'aped 
back, stand of fiowei's before it; upright piano agaijist 
flat, R., of door, at which Bessie is seated, playing, back to 
andie?ice. Majitel, r., with fireplace. Royal staiiding in 
chair hanging a sabre {sheathed) above the mantel. Table L., 
C, May seated l. of it, sewing. Chair R. of table, hassock 
near itj ottomaji back near window. Doors I and 3 en- 
trance R.y door id entrance, l. Flowers in vase on mantel ; 
whole scene tasty and comfortable. Music at 7-ising of 
curtain, — " The Dearest Spot on Earth to the is Home, 
Sweet Home / " 

Royal. There, May, we'll hang this relic of my warrior 
days above the mantel, to remind us, that now I have be- 
come a husband, the sword is beaten into a ploughshare. 

May. Very appropriate, now you have become a hus- 
bandman. 

Roy. Good, very good ! Wedlock has sharpened your 
wits. Yes, I am the happy husband of the best -little wife 
ever erring man was blessed with. Oh, blissful state of 
matrimony! why did I not become your naturalized citizen 
before ? {Steps from chair). There, old friend, rest in peace ! 
no more shall we in fellowship dash upon the enemy; no 
more, hand in hand, encounter the perils of the battlefield, 
the glory of triumph, the shame of defeat. Oh, rest in peace, 
old dog of war, until you grow rusty with honorable age ! 

May. How very pathetic ! You have pronounced the 
eulogy. Bess, a dirge would be appropriate just now. 

Bess. Yes. How would "Old Dog Tray" suit the 
occasion ? 



COMRADES. 

Roy. Very bad. A biting sarcasm {Looks at sabre). 
Rather ornamental. Hey, May.^ {Sits in chai?', R. of table.) 

May. It has a wicked look. It makes me shudder. 

Roy. Indeed! then down it comes. {Rises.) 

May. No, let it hang. I only fear that, like its master, 
it may occasionally have martial fits, and then — 

Roy. Fits ! Well, what then .? 

May. My poor vases would fall beneath the sword. 

Roy. Never fear; like its master, 'tis securely tied to 
your apron-string. How time flies ! 'Tis ten years since my 
old friend and I closed our campaign. 

May. And just three months since we closed our cam- 
paign— 

Roy. Of courtship, yes, and massed our forces for the 
battle of life. Yes, yes. Then I captured the heart, which, 
for two years, I had so valiantly attacked. 

May. Valiantly, indeed. 'Twas with fear and trembling, 
you, the veteran warrior, approached the citadel. 

Roy. Which was longing to surrender. 

May. No; I'll not confess that. 

Roy. But you do not regret it, May.^ You are happy 
here .? 

May. Happy, Roy ? I never dared to dream of so much 
happiness. I, a poor sewing-girl, earning my living with the 
needle, have now a home any lady might well be proud of, 
and a husband — 

Bess. Ahem ! 

Roy {rising). Hallo ! Little Pitcher's ears are wide open. 
{Crossing to mantel^ and leaning against it). What's the mat- 
ter, Bess ? 

Vi^s?, {swinging round on stool). Can't you speak a httle 
louder, you two.-* It's so provoking to only hear the ripple of 
a conversation which you know will be sure to end in a 
smacking breeze. 

Roy. I was not within saluting distance. {Aside.) I wish 

1 had been. 

Bess. Then I should have had a full report of your con- 
versation. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you two have been married three 
months, and have not yet finished your courting. Remark- 
able vitality! I thought love-making ended at the altar. 

Roy. Remarkable ignorance, Bess. But you are young 
and green. Did you, indeed? 



COMRADES. 7 

Bess. Yes ; and that the flame of love was extinguished 
when the husband, poor man ! was obhged to rise, on a cold, 
frosty morning, to build the fire. 

Roy. That only adds fuel to the flame. 

Bess. That the fountain of affection ceased to flow, 
when he had to go a mile to draw a pail of water. 

Roy. Liquid nonsense. You are alluding, of course, 
now, chatterbox, to our first effort at housekeeping; but 
all that is over; everything is nicely arranged, and we can 
now bask in the warmth of domestic fires. 

Bess. If the chimney doesn't smoke, — which it does, 
you know, awfully. 

Roy ( cj'ossino^ to chair r. of table). Hang the chimney ! 
You'd put a damper on anything. May, what shall we do with 
this girl? 

May. Let her scoff. It will be our turn soon ; her fate 
is approaching. 

Bess {Jumping up). Did you hear his step? 

Roy. Ha ! hk ! ha ! 

. " By the pricking of my thumbs, 

Something wicked this way comes." 

Bess. It's Marcus, and you have told me. {Exit C.) 

May. Stop! stop! Bess! I hear nothing. 

Roy. Let her go; no doubt she'll meet Marcus, and, 
having found him, she'll inark-iis no more. Do you know. 
May, I'm getting anxious about that young man. 

May. He's a very agreeable fellow, seems honest, and is 
fast winning the affections of Bess. 

Roy. Yes, I know all that you know ; but what we don't 
know is what bothers me. When, in pursuit of happiness, I 
made my way to the humble but comfortable residence of 
the late Mrs. Bradley, you being the attraction, I found this 
young man paying court to Bess in the parlor, while I 
emulated his example by making love to you in the sitting- 
room. 

May. They were well called suite {soot) er rooms, ha ! 
ha ! ha ! 

Roy. Allow me to correct your pronunciation for suite 
{sweet) er, rooms, they must have been, with two pair of 
lovers. Well, Mrs. Bradley died. You must have a home ; 
there was nothing to hinder, and we were married, came here, 



5 COMRADES. 

and brought Bess with us, a welcome addition to our house- 
hold. 

May. Dear girl ! She is the light of our house. 

Roy. Well, I cannot exactly agree with you, having a 
star of the first magnitude before my eyes. As a matter of 
course, Mr. Marcus Graves follows. I don't object to that, 
but I do object to his secretiveness. Who is he .'' He 
seems to have no relatives, no friends : at least he never 
speaks of them. 

May. You know his business ? 

Roy. Yes. He's a drummer. 

May. a military man. Then you surely should like 
him. 

Roy. a military man — not exactly, our military drum- 
mer — musters his men to battle with the rattle of his sheej> 
skin ; your civil drummer, with the rattle of his tongue, taps 
the sheepskin of the men he musters, and too often makes 
enemies in his own ranks, with short and poor rations not 
up to sample. Yes ; I have become the natural protector 
of this young lady, and should know something about this 
ardent suitor who never speaks of marriage. 

May. To be sure you should. Well, why don't you .>* 

Roy What ! Pin him in a corner, and, like a stern par- 
ent, ask him who are his parents, and what are his intentions. 

May. And what then ? 

Roy. Ten to one he'll fly into a passion, tell me it's none 
of my business, and quit the house in disgust. 

May. Somehow, Roy, I have faith in Marcus Graves. 

Roy. Because Bessie loves him. Oh, the warm cloak of 
affection covers a multitude of sins ! 

May. For the world I would not bring a pang to her 
dear heart ! Her mother, for fifteen years, was the dearest 
friend I had in the world. When the war broke out, my 
father went to battle. We were all in the West then. What 
ever became of him I never knew. No doubt he died for 
his country as bravely as he went forth. My mother — 

Roy. Deserted you ! Fled with your father's friend ! 
It's a sad story, May. Don't speak of it. 

May. Yes : I was left to the care of strangers. And 
this kind neighbor, Mrs. Bradley, took pity upon me. She 
was poor ; but, hard as was her lot, I was treated as her own 
child. O Roy ! she was a mother to the friendless little 



COMRADES. ' g 

Stranger ! Heaven knows I am grateful ! All the tenderness 
she bestowed upon me I have tried to repay in love for her 
child. In days of poverty, Bess and I sliared our crusts to-« 
gether ; and now that fortune has blessed me with prosperity, 
her happiness is more than ever, with your dear help, to be 
the aim of my life. Comrades in adversity should be com- 
rades in prosperity. 

Roy. Right, Mary. For her happiness we will strive to- 
gether. Comrades ! ah, that brings back the old days. May ! 
But I forget ; you do not like to have me speak of them. 

May. You do not mean that, Roy. Am I not proud of 
your war record ? Do I not glory in your triumphs, there 
where brave men fought and fell. 

Roy. That old sabre, if it had a tongue, could tell won- 
drous stories. Ah! old fellow! you failed me once. In 
those old days I had a friendship for a man in our regiment, 
with whom I made a queer compact, something after the 
manner of yours and Bessie's. He saved my life one day. 
'Twas at Antietam, we were swooping down upon the ene- 
my, — a cloud of horsemen with flashing sabres. Just as we 
reached the foe, my horse stumbled and fell. I thought my 
time had come. But between me and a descending sabre 
rode my comrade. I was saved. That night in camp we 
renewed our friendship, and, in jovial mood, vowed that 
whatever good fortune should be in store for u,s in the future 
should be shared between us. We were both poor — nothing 
but our soldier's pay. The war ending, we parted. He wen^ 
West in search of friends. I come here, to find my only 
friend, my father, dead, and, to my surprise, a small fortune 
awaiting me. Poor fellow ! I often wonder if he fared as 
well. {Rises, goes R.) 

May. And you have not seen him since .'* 

Roy. No : one of these days I mean to hunt him up. 

May. To share with him your fortune ? 

Roy {comes to back of her chair, hand on table; looks 
at her). If he be poor, yes ; for I shall still be rich. He 
could not claim my chief treasure, my pearl above price, — 
you {stoops to kiss her). 

{Enter Bess, c.) 

Bess. Ahem I 

Roy {starting up, and crossing to r). Bother that girl ! 
Well, what now 1 



10 ' COMRADES. 

Bess. I smell smoke, and where there's smoke there 
must be fire. 
* Roy. Not where you are. You're a capital extinguisher. 

May. Did you find him, Bess ? 

Bess. No. 'Twas a false alarm. Oh, dear ! why don't 
he come ? 

Roy. Poor dear ! how sad ! Hasn't seen him since last 
night — no, this morning; for Til be hanged if the sun 
wasn't rising when I got up to fasten the "door after him ! 

Bess. Yes, your father's son. What a shame — 

Roy. Your right. I nearly caught my death. 

Bess. To talk so ! You know he left the house before 
ten. 

Roy. This morning, yes. Quite time to be moving. 

May. Roy, don't torment her. See how anxious she is ! 

Roy. As anxious as a cat to seize a poor little mouse, 
that she may tease it. 

Bess. Oh, you wicked wretch ! You know we never 
quarrel. {Goes l.) 

(Marcus runs in c, riding-whip in hand.) 

Mar. Oh, here you are. Manning ! Call your chickens 
under their mother's wing ; fasten up the hen-roost ; barri- 
cade your pigpen ; call out your troops, and plant your big- 
gest guns upon the ramparts. The enemy is at your door ! 

Roy. Halloa! Halloa! What's the matter.? 

May. Enemy ! what enemy ? 

Bess. Marcus, have you been drinking.'' 

Roy. I told you he was up late. Well, old fellow, who is 
the enemy ? 

Mar. The terror of housekeepers ! the devourer of cold 
meats ! the robber of the clothes-line ! Hush ! " take heed ! 
whisper low " — the tramp. 

Roy. Oh ! 

Bess. Ah ! 

May. Indeed! 

Mar. Yes. I met a true type of the fraternity half a 
mile below. He stopped my horse, and begged money. I 
always make short work of these fellows, so tossed him a 
quarter and rode on. He turned into that shanty set apart 
for the entertainment of man and beast, and no doubt will 
pour entertainment down his throat in beastly style. So 
look out, Manning. He may pay you a visit. 



COMRADES. 1 1 

Roy. 'Twill be a short one, then; and I'll give him no 
quarter. 

Mar. Well, how are you all, particularly my bonny Bess ? 
{Shakes hands with he?\ l.) 

Roy. Half a mile below. Did he look rough .? 

Mar. Rough, but good-natured. Dress ragged, face 
bloated, figure plump. These fellows thrive on their pick- 
ings these pests. 

Roy. Don't say that, Marcus. , The fellow may have 
been unfortunate. 

Mar. Unfortunate 1 Bah ! What's misfortune but a roll 
in the dust.^ — jump up, shake yourself, and you're as good 
as new. I've no patience with a man who wants vim — 
something on the side of his face — you know — cheek! 

Roy. Yes : a quality which tramps {aside) and drum- 
mers {aloud) possess in a wonderful degree. (Bess goes tip 
to piano) 

Mar. For my part, I never allow myself to be staggered 
by the blows of fate. When they come, I take a long breath, 
and hit out straight from the shoulder. 

May. When did you hear from your father, Mr. Graves ? 

Mar {confused). Eh, — my fa — yes — oh, yes ! That is 

— not lately. 

May. He was well when you heard ? 

Mar. Oh, yes, beautiful — that is hearty — he wishes to 
be remembered to all my customers — my friends, I mean. 
{Goes up to piano.) 

Roy {co77iing to table). May, what are you doing ? 

May. Pinning him in a corner. You men are so afraid 
of each other. Woman's curiosity knows no fear. We've 
found out one thing : he has a father. 

Roy. Yes, and one other : he's afraid of him. Did you 
notice his hesitation .'' 

May. Yes. There's some mystery about that father, 
which I mean to fathom. 

Roy. But not now ; give him time. You staggered him 

— after his boast, too. He didn't strike out well. Come, 
let's go into the garden. The young people want to be left 
alone. {Goes up.) 

May {rising). Yes. I want you to look at my helio- 
ti'opes ; they're just splendid ! {Goes up and places arm 
ift Roy's.) 



12 COMRADES. 

Roy. All right. Good-by, Bess. Don't catch cold. 
There's a smacking breeze coming. 

Bess. And another going. Good-by. 
(Roy and May exit c.) 

(Graves comes down slowly and sits in chair k., of table. 
Bess watches him without speaking^ 

Graves {slowly). Now what possessed Mrs. Manning to 
speak of my father? A subject to which I have never 
alluded. Can she mistrust me? Egad! she nearly took 
away my breath. My boasted boldness vanished like a flash. 
(Bess rises^ takes a wisp of hay from mantel^ and comes 
behind him.) And yet I've nothing to be ashamed of, — only 
a mystery. Mystery ! why should I have a mystery here? 
(Bess tickles his ear with the wisp. He brushes it off 
quickly) Confound it ! its hurting me. This girl loves me, 
and I love her. I've only to speak and she is mine. (Bess 
tickles him. He b?'ushes it o^.) Hang it! I'm tormented 
with doubts. But confession is a sure road to favor. I'll 
make a confidant of Bessie. If anybody else should tell her 
I should be (Bess tickles him again) stung with shame. Yes, 
I'll meet \\.{liKSS pjits her arms rou7id his neck and brings 
her face round as he speaks this) face to face. 

Bess. Dreaming, Marcus ? {Sits on hassock at his feet., 
back to audience). 

Mar. Why, Bess, what a brute I've been ! Yes, dream- 
ing, Bess, of a happy future, I trust, in store for you and me. 
Do you ever dream of that time ? 

Bess. Not I. When the skies are bright above us, why 
should we seek to peep even in dreams beneath the horizon 
when we know not what storms may be gathering there to 
roll over the brightness of the present ? 

Mar. Yes ; but the cautious mariner is ever alert for the 
faintest signs of the coming storm. 

Bess. Well, I am not a mariner, and my umbrella is 
always at hand. 

Mar. Bess, can't you be serious ? 

Bess. I don't know. Try me. 

Mar. Bess, I love you. 

Bess. A failure, Marcus. That pleases me. 

Mar. And you are to be my wife ? 

Bess. Another, Marcus. That delights me. 

Mar. Yes, Bess ; I Icnow my love is returned. For 



COMRADES. 13 

three years we have been all in all to each other ; and now, 
Bess, I tell you I am unworthy of your love. 

Bess. You, Marcus ! Now, you surprise me ! 

Mar. You trust me fully? You would go with me to the 
altar hand in hand, beyond the altar to death itself — 

Bess. To death itself, Marcus ! 

Mar. And yet, on my part, their has been no confidence ; 
into my past life you have had no glimpse. You took me, a 
stranger, to your heart, — never questioned me ; and, beyond 
the interchange of affection, myself, my fortune, and my home 
are strangers still. 

Bess. Blind, Marcus ! Blind, are you ? My woman's 
curiosity sought in the beginning to know you ; my heart's 
instinct probed you, to know if you were worthy. I found 
you polite, chivalrous, charitable, with a heart open to every 
cry of distress, a hand ever ready to proffer assistance. 
Oh, I tried you deeply, as your purse can show ! I found 
you true, noble, sincere. I had no right to question further. 

Mar. But you must know me, Bess. 

Bess. When you please, Marcus. 

Mar. Then patiently hear me ; for on your judgment rest 
my hopes of future happiness. 

Bess. Indeed ! Now, Marcus, I am serious. 

Mar. Bess! 

{Enter Simon Stone, c, quickly.) 

Sim. Beg your pardon ! Don't rise — I may be right. 
I may be mistaken — Don't rise. Is this the abode of Miss 
Nancy Nipper ? 

Bess {rises quickly. Marcus sits still). Yes. Nancy 
is in the kitchen. 

Sim. Oh, made a mistake ! Yes, yes. Can you point out 
the position of the culinary department of your dwelling ? 

Bess. I will call her in. Take a seat. 

Sim. Ah, thank you. (Bess exit R. i. e.) Here's my 
card. Gone ! gone without it, and I went to the expense of 
getting up that card for the express purpose of having it 
placed in the hands of Miss Nancy Nipper. Says I, " Simon, 
don't be shabby. Go, like a gentleman. Spare no expense." 
— and it's useless. {Comes doww^., ttirns, and sees Marcus 
in chair.) Halloa, Mark ! — Mark, the perfect man. 

Mar {rises). Si, old fellow where in the world did you 
drop from ? {Gives hand.) 



14 COMRADES. 

SiMO'i^ {takes hand a?id shakes it). Well, in truth, Mark 
— But stop. I interrupted a tete-a-tete. There was a young 
lady sitting on that hassock. O Mark, this is too bad ! I'm 
in the way. Good-by {sta^^ts for door). 

Mar {detaining him). Stop, stop. Si ! it's all right. But 
why are you here ? 

Simon. I — why — well — Look here, Mark, I know 
I'm in the way. I'll come again {starts for door). 

Mar {detaining him). No, no ; it's all right, Si. I see — 
you're in love with our Nancy. 

Simon. Our Nancy! Our — Good gracious, Mark ! You 
don't mean to say that you are aspiring to the affection of 
that damsel ? 

Mar. Ha, ha, Si ! You need not fear. When I said our 
Nancy, I meant our girl — help, you understand. 

Simon. Oh ! Ah ! Then you are one of the family. 

Mar {confused). Well, no. Not exactly. 

Simon. Oh, I see. Don't blush, but I'm sure I must be 
in the way. I'll come again {starts for door). 

Mar {detaining hi7n). Simon, stop. If you leave this 
room we are enemies. 

Simon. But, Mark, I might blast your prospects, were it 
known that you and I — 

Mar. Were friends, dear friends ; that you were the only 
one who reached out a helping hand to me a destitute 
stranger, when I entered yonder city, five years ago. 

Simon. None of that, Mark. Don't be shabby ; helping 
hand, indeed, to a loft in the sixth story, a bed on a heap 
of rags, and dry bread washed down with water. 

Mar. Divided your substance with me. Sim, when I 
forget your kindness, may I be as hungry as I was then. 

Simon. Yes ; but, Mark — 

Mar. Hush. Here comes Miss Bess. 

Simon. Then I'll just step outside {going). 

Mar {detaining him). Not a step. 

{Enter Bess, r. i. e.) 

Bess. Nancy will be here in a minute. Mr. — 

Mar {comifig down l., leading Simon, the right hands 
clasped). Bess, Miss Bradley, allow me to present a very 
dear friend, — Mr. Simon Stone, my chum. 

Bess. Indeed {offering her hand). Mr, Stone, you are 
very welcome here. 



COMRADES. 15 

Simon {takes hand). Ah — yes ; thank you. Thank you 
— very kind {goes L.). Chums. Chums, — before her, too. 
There's nothing shabby about that. 

Mar. We'll leave you, Simon, to your friend ; but don't 
go until I've seen you again. 

Bess. Oh, no. You must stop to dinner. 

[Bess ajid Marcus exeimt, c, ann in arm."] 

Simon. Yes, thank you, much obhged. Well, now, that's 
hearty ; pretty as a picture, and he, there's nothing shabby 
about him. Now, for Nancy. Won't her eyes glisten when 
she sees me in this stunning get-up. I never did care for 
dress, but when I made up my mind to look after Nancy 
again, 1 said to myself, " Simon, don't be shabby ; do the 
thing in style ; " and here I am, bran new from top to toe, 
from shampoo to shining leather, but with the same old 
heart inside of me, advancing double-shuffle to the tune of 
" Nancy is my darling." 

{Enter Nancy, r. i. e.) 

Nancy. Now, I'd like to know who — Good gracious ! 
it's Simon Stone. 

Simon. Nancy, it is. Simon, your Simon. How dye do 
{offers hand). 

Nancy. Well, I declare ! rigged out like a dancing-jack. 
You extravagant dog ! 

Simon {turning round). Gay, ain't it. Cut to order by 
an artist, {turns round) ; look at the " elegance of expression " 
in the back of that coat, and the tout ensejnble of these panta- 
loons. That's what he called 'em, and I know they're there, 
for I paid for 'em. Nothing shabby about me. 

Nancy. Well, and what brings you here ? 

Simon. Love, Nancy. Devotion, Nancy. Affection, 
Nancy — 

Nancy. Rubbish! Are you a fool.? Don't you know 
better than to bring such things here on a washing-day? 

Simon. Washing-day! Confound it, Nancy! I'm fated 
to call when you are in the suds. 

Nancy. Because you always manage to come on a Mon- 
day, when I am up to my ears in a tub. 

Simon. Monday — washing-day. That's why somebody 
says cleanliness comes next to godliness, 

Nancy. Simon Stone, what is your present occupation ? 

Simon. Nancy, at present I am a humble but earivest 



l6 COMRADES. 

worker in the confectionery busines. {Takes box from left 
coat pocket) Have a gum-drop ? {Offers paper) 

Nancy. No. Confectionery, indeed ! 

Simon {puts back paper). Nancy, tlie first time I ever 
approached you in humble admiration of your grace and 
beauty — try a peppermint. {Takes paper from his pocket 
and offers it.) 

Nancy {folding her arms and turning her head). No. 

Simon (/!'?//j- back paper). I was a butcher, — an honest 
but bloody butcher. You turned up your nose at the scent 
of blood. 

Nancy. Because I knew you wouldn't stick to it. 

Simon. I turned my back upon the slaughtered beeves, 
and in that higher sphere, the milky way, sought to win your 
love. You politely but firmly assured me I couldn't comet 
in that line. 

Nancy. I detest the whole race ! Milk and water men ! 
I'd like to scald them. 

SiiMON. Cremation would suit them better. My next 
venture was in the slippery walks of butter and cheese. 

Nancy, Anything but a butter man. 

Simon. So I found out, when I attempted to shde into 
your affections in that role. You told me to cheese it. I un- 
derstood you, and I sought a higher sphere. I embarked in 
the electric line, and went out into the highways and by-ways 
to introduce lightning-rods. 

Nancy. Well, I found no fault with that. 

Simon. No ; but I did. 

Nancy. Why didn't you stick to it ? 

Simon. Well, Nancy, {takes box from breast pocket). 
Have a little taffee ? 

Nancy. No. 

Simon {puts paper back). The fact is, lightning-rods don't 
agree with me. I started out in high hopes, one bright 
morning, espied an unprotected dwelling, rushed boldly up, 
rung the bell, notwithstanding a gigantic mastiff lay at my 
feet, evidently occupied in catching flies. Gent came to the 
door. In glowing speech I introduced my business. He 
rubbed his chin, said, " I don't know," and looked at the 
dog. I found he did know, when he further remarked, with 
emphasis, " Rover, here's another rod man." The dog gave 
a growl and rose. An electric shock was communicated to 



COMRADES. 17 

my being, and I calculated in one brief minute how many 
rods I should have to clear before reaching my rods outside. 
Then I left, closely attended by the dog. I didn't own these 
clothes then ; if I had my loss would have been greater, 
especially in that part of my wardrobe which the artist des- 
ignated as tout e7ise7nble. I gave up that business in disgust. 

Nancy. Well, what next.? 

Simon. Then I sought the confectioner's emporium. 
Said I, here's a sweet occupation, and a candid young man 
can win more lasses' favor in this line than in any other. 
Nancy, you would adore me could you see me in a white 
apron, pulling molasses candy over a hook {with gestures)^ 
with a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether ! 

Nancy. Simon Stone, you are a fool ! 

Simon. Nancy, I know it, or I should not be running 
after you, when I've been snubbed time and time again. 
Nancy, dear Nancy, look upon me with favor this time. 
{Takes box from pocket behind.) Accept tlds slight but 
sweet offering of affection. {Presents it.) Real French 
candy — made it myself. 

Nancy {taking box). Do you mean to stick to this busi-. 
ness, Simon ? 

Simon. To be sure I do, and it's an awful sticky business 
I tell you — specially setting down into a pan of hot, cooHng 
candy when you aren't particularly tired. 

Nancy. Well, Simon, if I thought I could trust you. 

Simon. You can, Nancy, you can. O Nancy, quit this 
scrubbing existence and work for me alone ! 

Nancy. I'll think about it when you find the soap. 

Simon. I have found it in the confectionery line. 

Nancy. Well, Simon, I must confess I rather hke that. 

Simon. Do you Nancy. Eurekey, I've found it at last! 
{Takes paper from pant's pocket.) Try a chocolate drop, 
Nancy. {She takes it.) You make me so happy. It's just 
the nicest business you ever looked upon. Rows and rows 
of shelves filled with all that's sweet to the tooth — and 
profitable to the dentist. And then the girls, Nancy, you 
should see the girls. 

Nancy. The what.? 

Simon. Girls. Pretty girls that tend behind the coun- 
ters, deahng out sugar plums, and — and lozengers, and — 
and kisses, with eyes full of fun and mouths full of candy. 
Oh, it's just glorious ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 



l8 COMRADES. 

Nancy {sternly). Simon ! 

Simon {sobered). Well, Nancy ? 

Nancy. Do you ever look at the girls ? 

Simon. To be sure I do. I've often received a kiss from 
them. 

Nancy. Simon ! 

Simon. Sugar ones, Nancy. 

Nancy. Very well, Simon, very well. I'm perfectly sat- 
isfied. 

Simon. Oh, Nancy! then you — 

Nancy {furiously). I'll have nothing more to say to a 
man who so debases himself as to associate with lozengers 
and lollypops, sugar plums and pretty girls, with eyes full 
of candy and mouths full of kisses. Good morning, Mr. 
Stone. 

Simon. Where are you going, Nancy? 

Nancy. Back to my washing. The business won't suit, 
Simon. 

Simon. What ! are you going to snub me again.'* {Ajigry.) 
Hang it, Nancy Nipper! I'm not going to be treated in this 
shabby manner ! Take me now, or you lose me forever. It's 
the last time of asking. 

Nancy. I'm glad of that. 'Twill save much trouble. 

Simon. Then give me back my French mixture. There 
is nothing shabby about me ; but if I can't have your affec- 
tion, you shan't have my confectionery. 

Nancy {throws box at him). There ! 

Simon {picks up box). Good day. Miss Nipper. You've 
nipped my prospects of having your sweet self; but I've got 
a sweet thing left in the sugar and molasses line, and I don't 
mean to give it up. 

Nancy. Go back to your sweet things, your pretty 
waiter girls. Go, sir ! 

Simon. I will, you cruel, heartless, scrubby thing I and if 
ever I face you again with an offer of my heart — 

Nancy. Be sure to come on Monday ; for then I always 
have plenty of hot water. 

Simon. Bah ! I hope you'll live and die an old maid, 
Miss Nipper. Them's my compliments to you, and there's 
nothing shabby about me. 

{Exit c.) 

Nancy. Good riddance, Simon. Wonder in what new 
freak of business he'll appear next 



COMRADES. 19 

{Efiter May c.) 
May. Ah, Nancy, you've had a visitor ! Nice-lookino- 
clever young man, I should say. {Seais herself at he?- sewing 
L. of table). ^ 

Nancy. Clever ! he's too clever. Thinks he knows a great 
deal ; and I think he knows more by this time. They're all 
clever enough to come offering their affection; but,tiirhe can 
otter somethmg more substantial, he'll find I'm clever enou<rh 
to keep smgle. Matt {staggers in fro?n l. to door c. a%d 
leans against side of door l.). Good gracious ! here's a 
tramp. {Goes R.) 

May {rising alarmed). A tramp ! 

^ Matt. 'Scuse me {hie). Somesin' to eat — four days 

smce I tasted noth — /«6 — in. Somesin' for a brave sol — 

hic — dier, who flought and fed for his country, (//ie ) 

Tha's me. "^ '^ 

Nancy. Go away ; clear out. 'Sh ! nothing for you, you 
beast ! ^ j ^ j 

Matt. 'Scuse me {hie). Here's gratitude! Where's 
your pat — hie — rism .? Us brave f el — hie — lers, — that's 
me. I'm one on 'em. Fit and fled {hie), and won the gl — 
hie — ory. Look at your waving {hie) cornfields. We s//aved 
em Your princely pal — ///^ — aces. We protected 'em. 
And now you {hie) 'sh ! and would give us noble de— ///of- 
fenders of the soil nofiin' {hie) to keep the door from the {hie) 
wolf. [Staggering down to ehair r. of table, hafid on baek 
of It) Sgraceful; 'scuse me; 'sgraceful. {Hie) No of- 
fence ; but it's 'sgraceful . {Sinks into chair.) 

Nancy. You ugly bear! Leave this house quick, or I'll 
scald you ! 

Matt. 'Scuse me {hie\ young woman. I'm 'dressing my 
con — /;zV — 'sation to your superior of — ///r — ficer — 

May. Silence, sir! You are intruding here. If you 
want something to eat, follow Nancy and she will provide for 
you. 

Nancy. If I do, I hope 'twill choke him. 

Matt. Oh, that's Nan — ///^ — cy, is it.? Nan— /«V— cy 
my regards. I salute you. Nan — /«V — cy ! I'm a poor old 
soldier, deserted by his (///V) country ; but I've an eye for 
beauty {hie). Sorry you haven't any. Nan — hie — cy. 

May. Nancy, speak to your master. 

Nancy {starts for door). That I will, quick ! 



20 COMRADES. 

Matt {rising a?id stopping her). Don't trouble yourself, 
Nancy. I'm unfor — hie — 'nate, but I'm (/zzV) polite. Stay 
where you are. {Sinks ifito ehair.) This company's good 
'nuff {hie) for me. 

May. Oh, where can Roy be "i This fellow terrifies me ! 

Matt. 'Scuse me. I'm a patriot. {Hie.) This is what 
a man gets forservin' his country. {Hie.) When the battlers 
over, turn him adrift. {Hie.) Why didn't they make me 
Pres — hie — ident as well as that other fellow } I fit and 
fed {hie\ and he fit and run {hie) for President. 'Sgraceful 
shame ! {Hie.) 'Scuse me. 

{Enter Marcus followed by Bess.) 

Nancy. Ah, here's somebody'll make you run. 

May. O Mr. Marcus ! Mr. Graves ! 

Mar. Halloa ! what's this ? The tramp ! {Comes down) 
Here, fellow, you start ! 

Matt {t2ir7is and looks at hijn). 'Scuse me {hie), are you 
anybody in par — hie — ticular ? 

Mar. Leave this room at once. Do you hear? 

Mat. 'Scuse me. I'm com — hie — fortable ; make your- 
self at home. 

Mar {striking him with whip). Scoundrel, begone, I say. 
(Royal enters c.) 

Matt {rising). Ha ! it strikes me that you struck {hie) 
me. {Hie.) I don't keep no accounts. So let that settle 
{hie) it. {Strikes at Marcus. Royal eo7nes down, seizes 
hijn by nape of neck, and throws him on floor L. halfway up.) 

Roy. Lie there, you scamp ! 

Matt {staggering to his feet). Ha, surrounded! then I'll 
die game {hie), I will. {Rushes at Roy; they grapple, and 
stand looking i?ito each othe?'\s' faces. Chord.) 

Roy. Matt Winsor. 

Matt. Here. {Hie.) Hold on a minute. Yes, it's Roy 
{hie), Roy Manning, as I'm a s/nnner ! 

Roy {grasping his hand). My old comrade, Matt. Heaven 
bless you ! It is, it is. 

Matt {shaking his hand). Yes it's him, glory {hie), old 
boy ; we've marched together, slept together, fought together, 
now let's take {hie) a drink together. 

Roy. Not now. Matt; you seem to have taken a little too 
much already. May, this is my old comrade, of the war. 

May {turniftg away). His comrade ? 



COMRADES. 2 1 

Bess {comes down l.). May, he's drunk. 

Matt {comes down). 'Scuse me, ma'am, we were sweet- 
hearts in the camp {hic\ your'e his sweet — hie — heart now; 
but you can't love Roy any better than I did in those {hie) 
gay old days (/z/V), and now an ungrateful {hie) republic turns 
her noble 'fenders out to starve. 

Roy. Not quite as bad as that. Matt. I've enough and 
to spare. Come with me. 

Matt. Hold on a {hie) minute, Roy. Who's the chap 
with the whip ? 

Roy (c). Mr. Marcus Graves. 

Matt. 'Scuse me (hie), what did you say his name was? 
Oh 1 Mr. Tombs. We've met before. 

Mar (r.). Yes, once before to-day, when I tossed you a 
quarter. Sorry you made such bad use of it. 

Matt. So am I {Jiereely). I wish I had turned and 
flung it in your face. 

Mar. Sir. 

ROY. Matt. 

Matt. He struck me, Roy — me, an old soldier of the 
{hie) republic. 'Sgraceful. I'm going to pay o£E that score. 
We met once — before this day. 

Mar. I never saw your face before. 

Matt. Indeed. {Hie.) My face is one to be remem- 
bered. 

I^Jancy {enters r.). That's so. It has no beauty to speak 
of. {Aside). Paid off that score. 

Matt. Once before, in the prisoner's dock. I as a vagrant 
{hie), you as a defaulter. 

Roy. a defaulter ! Matt 

May. Gracious heavens! 

Bess. No ! no ! 'tis false. 

Roy. Matt, you are crazy. 

Matt. Am I ? What says Mr. Graves? 

Roy. That it is false. 

Graves. Unfortunately it is true. 

May. True .? 

Bess {flinging herself into May's arjns). O May \ 

Roy. And you dare to enter my house, you, — a felon ? 

Matt {staggering down and sitting in chair R. of table). 
'Scgracef ul ! '(hie) 'mong respectable people {hie) like me. 

Mar. Hold, Mr. Manning! hear, before you condemn 



22 COMRADES. 

I am innocent of crime. Five years ago I was employed in 
a house in Chicago as book-keeper. A large sum of money 
was found missing, and I alone had access to it. I was 
arrested, and placed in the prisoner's dock. No proofs 
could be found to convict me, so I was discharged. I was 
innocent. The cunning rogue had so covered his tracks 
that the real culprit could not be detected. I was requested 
to resign my situation, which I did. 

Roy. And you took no steps to make your innocence 
clear ? 

Mar. Unfortunately, no. I knew I was innocent, and, 
anxious to keep the matter from my father, Hon. Lucius 
Graves, of Wisconsin, I came East, hoping that in time rhy 
innocence would be admitted, and I should be recalled. 

Roy. And your father ? 

Mar. Believes I am still in Chicago. 

Roy. And without a word of explanation, with this stigma 
upon your character, you have won the affections of an 
inmate of my household ? Mr. Graves, I am a just man ; 
when you can clearly prove your innocence, you will be 
welcome. Until then, my doors are no longer open to you. 

May. O Roy ! 

Bess. He is innocent; I know he is innocent! 

Roy. Let him be proved so, and no one will give him 
warmer greeting. But when a man's character is attacked, 
to turn his back upon the enemy and fly without striking one 
blow for his reputation is a mark of cowardice which no 
soldier can pardon. 

Mar. I understand you, sir; and, bitter as are your 
words, I thank you for them. You have shown me my duty. 
Bess, darling, be of good heart. I will return to claim you. 
You know I am innocent ; but I will not appear until the 
world shall know the truth. Farewell ! 
(Exi^ c.) 

Bess. (T/iro?as /ierse//i/Uo May^s arms.) O May May! 
this is cruel ! 

May. Cheer up, cheer up, my darling; all will yet be 
well. 

Matt. (I/ic). Bless my soul. Fve done it. (J^isi^s.) 
Good-by, Roy, {offers hand) ole fellow ! Glad you are pros- 
pering, though an ungrateful country did turn me adrift. 

Roy. No, Matt, you wander no more. Do you remember 



COMRADES. 23 

our compact at Antietam? Whatever fortune the world had 
in store for us should be shared together. 

Matt. Yes ; I'll stick to it, Roy, I'll share with you 
mine, the spoils of the tramp, crusts, {hie) kicks, and all. 

Roy. I'll share something better with you, a comfortable 
home, friendship, — a far better life for you, old wanderer ! 

May. His home here ! 

Nancy. Then I'll give notice. 

Matt. Roy, old comrade, you are jesting. I shall dis- 
grace you. 

Roy. Then out of my disgrace shall a man be born 
again. As we fought together for the old flag, we'll fight 
again. I see a victory to be won, a loyal heart to be re- 
claimed from the clutches of the enemy. I will lead, old 
comrade ; will you follow ? 

Matt. To victory or death, Roy, hand in hand. (RoY 
clasps hand in c.) 

May. Royal, are you mad ? — this wretch in our happy 
home ! Why, why is this ? 

Roy. Your counsel. May. Comrades in adversity 
should be comrades in prosperity. 

Tableau. 
Roy and Matt ha7ids clasped, c. May with her arm 
about Bessie's waist l. Nancy r. hands on her hips. 
Curtain. 



ACT II. 

Scene — same as in act i. Table as before. Arm-chair R. 
Sewing-chair L. Arm-chair a little back of mantel. Flat 
as before. Entrance same. Flower-stand ditto. Nancy 
discovered dusting table with a long-handled feather duster. 

Nancy. It's most time to hear from Mr. Manning. Two 
days since we've had a letter. Queer freak that was of 
his'n, turning Mr. Marcus Graves out of doors, and all at 
once starting off west to bring him back. {Dusts at back.) 
Couldn't have been because Miss Bess was pining away, be- 
cause she isn't. Her appetite is good ; and, when love doesn't 
affect that, there's no use in worrying. {Dusts piano.) She's 
just as happy all day riding about with Matt Winsor as she 
was with the other. And what a change in him. Came 
here, six months ago, a drunken tramp ; and now he's as 
spruce and clean and shiney as our copper boiler, — and so 
jolly and pleasant, too. And so eager to help, one can't help 
liking him. I'm sure Miss Bess does. {Dusts at mantel.) 
Look out, Mr. Graves ; I wouldn't give much for your chance 
three months from now, if you leave the field to the tramp. 

{Enter c. May, in aproft and gloves, a trowel in her hand ; 
followed by Simon, who carries a flower-pot cojitaining a 
geranium. He keeps his back to Nancy.) 

May. You may place that geranium on the flower-stand. 
(Simon goes to stand and busies himself there.) That's all I 
shall need at present. Thank you. Anybody been here, 
Nancy ? 

Nancy. No marm. Mr. Manning hasn't come yet. 

May. You are mistaken, Nancy; had I meant him, I 
should not have said anybody, for he is everybody to me. 
Ha! ha! 

Nancy. Well, then, there hasn't been nobody here. 

May. That's better, Nancy. I'll run and get rid of my 
apron and gloves, for fear somebody might happen in. 
{Exit door L.) 

Nancy. Poor thing ! She's just as anxious to hear from 



COMRADES. 25 

her husband as she can be. I know the symptoms. There's 
that good-for-nothing Simon Stone. I've not seen him since 
he took to the candy business ; but I'd just give all my old 
shoes to hear the sound of his voice once more. 

Simon {sneezing very loud). Ah-chah ! 

Nancy (r. starting) Good gracious ! It's that new gar- 
dener come to-day. If he sneezes like that among his 
flowers, he'll have everything up by the roots. Look here, 
sir, that won't do ! ^ 

Simon {turning round). Why not, Nancy, is it washing- 
day? 

Nancy. Mercy ! It's Simon Stone ! 

Simon. It is, Nancy. Your Simon. Come to my arms. 
{Adva7tces with arms outstretched.) 

Nancy {thrusts the duster straight out before her) Simon 
puts his face a?nong the feathers). Hands off ! 

Simon {spits ayid sputters). Phew! Pooh! Nancy, do 
you want to strangle me } 

Nancy. I don't mean you shall strangle me. What are 
you doing here } 

Simon. Humbly, but earnestly, I trust, about my business. 

Nancy. The candy business .'* 

Simon. No, Nancy ; the saccharine and treacle elements 
,have been ehminated from my existence. 

Nancy. What's the meaning of that outlandish stuff? 
Can't you speak English ? 

Simon. Yes ; I've cut the sugar and molasses. In that 
line I burned to distinguish myself, but I burnt too much 
c .ndy in trying to do it. So my employer requested me to 
cut stick. 

Nancy. Sticks of candy ? 

Simon. No, no, myself — leave, varmouse. 

Nancy. Oh ! you were discharged. 

Simon. Yes ; I went off and became a poHceman. 

N NCY. A policeman ! Simon, I always told you you 
would come to some bad end ! 

Simon. Well, the end of my career, in that line, was 
rather bad. Ah ! but Nancy, you should have seen me in 
my uniform, brass buttons, and shield. You would have 
been proud of me, had you seen me on my beat with my billy. 

Nancy. Billy who ? 

Simon. Ignorant female ! My weapon of defence ; the 



26 COMRADES. 



stick with which I terrified old apple-women and young news- 
boys. 

Nancy. Why didn't you show yourself ? I don't think you 
needed any o//ier stick to frighten them. 

Simon. Nancy. I was a hero on parade : but when it 
came to stepping into a row, I must say I felt more like 
knocking under than knocking over. In fact, my conscience 
became very tender on that point, one night, on having my 
billy taken away from me by a burly butcher, and being im- 
pressed, yes, several times impressed, with its hardness as he 
whacked me over the head with it. The situation struck me 
so forcibly, to say nothing of the billy, I quietly resigned my 
office, and retired to the humble but more healthy walks of 
life. 

Nancy. Well, Mr. Stone, what next? 

Simon. Mr. Stone ! Nancy, don't be hard on me ; call 
me Simon, pjo'e Simon, simple Simon. Do ! O Nancy ! 
you are my life, my love ! Do come to my arms ! {Advances 
with anjis extended.) 

Nancy {advances duster as before). Stand back! I pre- 
fer my own arms ! 

Simon {spits and sputters). Ah-choh ! You'll smother 
me with dust ! 

Nancy. Then behave yourself. Go on with your next 
occupation. 

Simon. It is that honorable profession in which our first 
great ancestor won renown. 

Nancy. By sticking to it, — which you will never do. 

Simon. And yet, for love of you, cruel Nancy, I've 
sought this lowly occupation. The Lady of Lyons inspired 
me. 

Nancy. Who's she 1 One of the candy-girls ? 

Simon. Candy-girls ? Nancy, have you forgotten the 
play? 

Nancy. Oh ! she was the young woman in spangles, 
that went in among the lions at the menagerie. Pretty lady 
she was. 

Simon. Nancy, I blush for you. 

Nancy. Well, I blushed for her. She had no chance 
herself, with such daubs on her face. 

Simon. Nancy, you're wrong. "The Lady of Lyons" 
is a play in which a gardener, Claude — somebody, falls in 



COMRADES. 27 

love with a beautiful lady. I went to see it, Nancy; and the 
way that young feller made love ^vas amazing. Y^u'd never 
believe he knew anything about rutabagas" and cabbages 
It give me an idea, Nancy. Says I, SinTon, woo Nanc??n 
that particular metre when you me^t her, and vie orv is 
yours. {Stnkes an attitude.) "Nancy, mean PauLL 
bright angels have fallen ere thy time - '' Pauline, 

/.^^w^^;- ^Y^?^t- you saucy scamp! {Chasing him round 
table, beating hini with bnish.) ^ 

Simon Stop! Don't! Quit! Nanc)^ that's what the 
feller said in the play - Claude, you know. 

if S' I'lSd^3^^^ '" '"'' '^""^^'"^^ ^' ''-'' '^ "^^' 

Simon. Now don't let you and I get into hot water be- 

o^et'tir/'' ""m' '^^^^""^ roof." You shall have dfe 
prettiest flowers, Nancy, in the garden, if you'll only smile 
upon me. O Nancy! (Strihes altitude:) -If thou wou dst 
have me paint the home — " woumsi 

Nancy. Paint ! are you going to be a painter now.? 

Simon. No, Nancy, that's what Claude said. 

Nancy. Bother Claude ! stick to your gardening. Do 
that for SIX months, Simon, and I'll marry you 

iMancy, seal the bargain with a kiss. (Advances.) 

^ ANC Y (Presenting brush as before). Some other time 

Simon (^//^^/;,^^ /,,V head, aud zuaiki?ig off y.. witJwut 
touching brush). Thou ^z/.-/ not tempt me. 

Nancy Now^ Simon, quit your nonsense and tell me 
Where's Marcus Graves .? ' 

Simon. The young man has gone West. 

Nancy. And you know nothing about him ? 

Simon. Haven't heard a word from him. By the bv 
Nancy, who s the gent that sticks so close to Miss Bessie.? 

JN ancy You d never guess, Simon ; that's the very identi- 
cal tramp that stopped here six months ago, — the verv dav 
you called — :i ^'^j 

Simon. Yes, washing-day. Well, Nancy, you must have 
given him a scrubbing. It seems to me he had sometliing 
to do with Marc's sudden departure. ^^ 

Nancy. Everything. He denounced him as a defaulter ; 
and, on his account, Mr. Manning turned Marcus Graves out 
01 his house. 



28 COMRADES. 

Simon. Indeed ! 

Nancy. Yes. You see he was Mr, Manning's comrade 
in the war ! and he thinks the world of him. 

Simon. And he accused Marc, the noblest fellow in the 
world. I'd like to get even with him for that. Is he married ? 

Nancy. No; but I shouldn't wonder if he and Miss 
Bessie made a match of it. 

Simon. Poor Marc ! What's the fellow's name ? 

Nancy. Matt Winsor. 

Simon. Matt! Matt! Stop a moment! {Takes ?nemo- 
ra7idum book from his pocket, arid turns the leaves 7'apidly.) 
H. I. J. K. L. M. Here it is — Matt Winsor. Ha! ha! 
ho ! ho ! He's mine ! He's mine ! 

Nancy. And what's all that, Simon ? 

Simon {strikes book). That, Nancy, is my savings bank. 
Little bits of information that I picked up as a policeman, 
and preserved for future use. Nancy, look at me ! I'm 
going to astonish you. So the tramp's sweet on Miss Bessie, 
is he? Nancy, I'll astonish him. Ay, the whole world shall 
be astonished. {Strikes attitude, and spouts.) 

"And thou, Pauline, so wildly loved, so guiltily betrayed — 
all is not lost. If I live, the name of him thou hast once 
loved shall not be dishonored ; if I die amidst the carnage 
and the roar of battle, my soul shall fly back to thee." {Ap- 
proaches her as before.) 

Nancy {advafices brush as before j he runs upon it). 
What are you talking about ? 

Simon {sputtering.) Pooh ! Pah ! That's what he said, 
— Claude, you know. 

Nancy. Hang Claude ! 

Simon. Hush ! {Looks around.) Nancy, can you keep 
a secret ? 

Nancy. Try me. 

Simon. Without opening 3'our lips? 

Nancy. Try me. 

Simon {throws his arm about her, prisoning her arms) 
There, keep that, Nancy. {Kisses her, and 7'uns up c.) 

Nancy {fiej-cely). You horrid wretch ! {Chases him up 
to door c. beat i Jig him with brush. He exits c.) 

Nancy {coming dow7i wiping her mouth). Well, this is a 
new business to him, and I hope he'll stick to it. 
(^Exit I. E. R. Enter May Door l.) 



COMRADES. 29 

May. What can keep Bess so long? She went off 
riding with Matt two hours ago. She seems very fond of 
him. {Goes up to door, looks off, and returns c.) I don't hke 
that. For Roy's sake I have endeavored to make this man's 
stay with us pleasant, and though I can never forget his 
rough introduction, I have no reason to complain of his 
conduct since. He is gentle and obliging, has not tasted a 
drop of liquor since that day, and in every way shown him- 
self to be at heart a gentleman. {Sits in chair R. of table.) 
And yet I have some good reasons for complaint. He 
claims so much of Roy's time. The hours he spent witli 
me here are now given to Matt, smoking in the garden, fight- 
ing their battles over again, I dare say. I'm afraid I'm a 
little jealous of that; and then his fondness for Bess, and 
her fondness for him. Ah ! there's grave cause for anxiety 
there. Roy laughs at me when I speak of it ; but suppose 
they should fall in love with each other.? Roy says he's 
much older than she. He forgets there is almost as much 
difference in our ages as there is in theirs. I don't like it. 
I believe Roy would be pleased to have them marry ; but not 
I. No ! no ! Oh, if Marcus Graves would only return ! 

Bess {outside). Ha ! ha ! ha ! fairly beaten. Victory, 
victory {runs in c. down r). Oh, May! such a glorious 
victory. I've distanced the bold cavalryman on a clear 
stretch of five miles. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

{Enter Matt, c.) 

Matt. Cleverly done, little one. I tried my best, but 
for once, you have fairly beaten me. Ah, Roy's wife, — the 
little one is a capital horseman. If ever I go to war again 
she shall be enlisted in the same company. 

Bess. Not I. There's better company at home. Only 
think of it ; Roger beat Rollo, fairly outstripped him. He 
never did such a thing before. 

Matt. The gallant fellow knew the soft caress of a 
pretty little hand, would reward his efforts. Who wouldn't 
do his best for that ? 

May. And the other gallant fellow was too polite to 
snatch victory from those pretty hands. 

Matt. No, no. No favor was shown. 

Bess. Not a bit. You should have heard our cavalryman 
shout, and seen him ply the whip. Mercy! I thought a 
troop of horse was coming down upon me. 



30 COMRADES. 

Matt. Yes, I was a little noisy I confess. For a 
moment the old feeling was upon me. The swift pace, made 
my blood whirl. I saw before me not you, brave little one. 
but the enemy, in line of battle ; the roars of cannon filled my 
ears, the smoke of battle my nostrils. The old cry came to 
my lips. Down on them ! Death to the foe ! Charge. 
[Goes R.) 

Bess {comes to c). Goodness, gracious ! what a noise. 

Matt. I beg your pardon ; I hope I didn't swear. 

Bess. Make your mind easy, with the discharge of that 
terrific "charge;" there could be need for nothing more ex- 
plosive. 

Matt. Ah, well, it's hard for a dog to forget his old 
tricks. I wish I could mine. I^ii a rough fellow at the 
best. It's a new life for me, this quiet home, you so kind 
and friendly, Roy's friendship, — No, no; that's not new. 
Heaven bless him : he's the same old comrade of tlie battle 
days. I know I must be in the way here. 

Bess. You are the best old fellow in the world {gives 
hands), and I love you dearly. 

Matt. 'Love me? 

Bess. As if you were my own brother. There sir, there's 
a confession : make the most of it. 

Matt. I wish I deserved it, little one ; but it makes me 
{wiping eyes) very — that is — its — too much. {Aside.) Con- 
found it, I shall blubber {Aloud.) Any news of Roy, Mrs. 
May? 

May. No: I hoped you might have been to the office. 

Matt. To be sure, and I galloping after this young 
Will-o'-the-Wisp. Oh, it's shameful, but I'll go at once. If 
we only have Roy back what a jolly day this Avill be. You 
shan't wait long, Roy's wife. Good-bye little one. {Goes 
out c.) 

Bess {goes r). I challenge you to another race, to-mon^ow 
morning. 

Matt {turns). I accept. 

Bess. Five miles. 

Matt. A straight course. 

Bess. Mind, no favor. 

Matt. All right. Shake hands on it. 

Bess {gives hand). There you have it. Now to the 
Post Office, — charge. 



COMRADES. 31 

Matt. Ay, charge for liberty, or — 

Bess. A letter. "Don't forget the letter. 

Matt. All right, little one : I'm off. {Exit) 

Bess. Isn't he splendid, May .'* I never saw a man I 
liked so well. 

May. Ah ! have you forgotten Marcus Graves, Bess ? 

Bess. Eh ? Hasn't he forgotten me "i 

May. I think not. At any time we may have new's of 
him. You know Roy is now seeking him, for your sake. 

Bess. He's very kind. {Aside.) Now what's the matter 
with her, I wonder ? 

May. And this man, Matt Winsor, caused his dismissal. 

Bess. Poor fellow. He didn't mean any harm. And I'm 
sure it is for the best. 

May. Suppose he should never return? 

Bess. Well, then, I should try and make the best of it. 

May. Bess, do you know this man loves you 1 

Bess. Marcus Graves .? well, he ought to. 

May. No, this man, Matt Winsor. 

Bess. {Aside.) Ah ! the cats out of the bag. {Aloud.) 
Good gracious ! Has he told 3'Ou so ? 

May. No, but I read it in every glance at his eye, every 
flush of his cheek. Oh ! Bess, Bess, you must not encour- 
age this. 

Bess. Encourage, — I — well I never. Didn't I tell him 
I loved him as a brother. 

May. Suppose he should some day tell you he adored 
you? 

Bess. Twould be just hke him. Soldiers adore, Civihans 
love. I prefer adoration, its a longer word, and of course 
contains more of the language of love. 

May. Suppose he should ask you to marry him ? 

Bess. Suppose, suppose anything you like. {Cross to 
door l), I'm going to change my dress. 

May. And you withhold from me your confidence, Bess, 
Bess, this is not right. 

Bess. May, don't lecture me. Do let me enjoy myself, 
'twill -be time to warn when the grub brother turns into the 
butterfly lover. {Aside.) She dares to doubt my love for 
Marcus. I'll plague her well for that. 
{Exit door E.) 

May {rising). 'Tis as I feared, she is learning to love this 



32 COMRADES. 

man ; this tramp, v/ho, in some unacountable manner, fascin- 
ates the whole household. Roy delights in his company. 
Bess is happy at his side ; even Nancy, the man hater, almost 
worships him, while I feel magnetized by his presence ; and 
yet he robs me of my husband's society. But he must not 
win my Bess, there's too much at stake, an accident might 
rouse the slumbering curse of his former life, and then what 
a fate would be her's. Oh, no, she must be saved from that, 
though I make an enemy of my husband's comrade. But 
how ? (Sits R. of table ^ How ? 

{Enter Simon c.) 

Simon. I beg your pardon. 

May. Well what is it ; anything the matter in the garden.** 

Simon. No, everything is flourishing there : I've weeded' 
out all that's unsightly and unwholesome ; but there's some- 
thing wrong here in the house. 

May. In the house, — what do you mean ? 

Simon. Mrs. Manning, gardening has not been the sole 
occupation of my life. Before I entered your service I was 
a policeman. 

May. Well? 

Simon. Now, a poHceman picks up a great many things in 
the course of his experience, and, in my short career, I have 
gained a morsel of information that may be useful to you. 

May. I do not understand you. 

Simon. Mrs. Manning, I was a short time ago, one of the 
humble instruments that rescued an unfortunate woman from 
the beastly brutality of a ruflian. I say one, the other was 
my billy. vShe was a poor fallen creature, who, in a drunken 
brawl was cruelly beaten. As I said, lue rescued her in an 
almost dying condition She was taken to Belleview hospital. 
As this was the only real service I performed during my brief 
career, I was interested in her case, and frequently called to 
see her. I was told she could not live. In the kindest man- 
ner possible for a policeman, I informed her of the fact. In 
return she told me she was a wife and mother, that her 
husband still lived. 

May. I do not understand how this can interest me. I 
pity the poor woman. Can I help her? 

Simon. You can help her to find her husband. 

May. I ? 

Simon. Yes, for you know him. She gave me his 
name, — Matt Winsor. 



COMRADES. 33 

May. Matt Winsor ? impossible ! he has told me he has 
no wife. 

Simon. Then he's a villain. I have told you all I know. 
The woman is dying. Let him know that, and if he denies 
her, then — 

May. Why have you told me this ? 

Simon. Because he wronged my warm friend Marcus 
Graves. Drove him from this house. I want to see him 
treated as he treated Marcus. 

May. Enough ! you may go. {Simon turns, and goes 
up.) Stay. I may want to speak with you again. {Simon 
goes up to plants, and busies himself frijnming them.) 
Drive him from this home. My husband's friend. Wretch, 
he deserves no pity. I'll fling his perfidy in his teeth. He 
dare to love Bess.? Ah, I have the power to save her. 
Heaven be praised. 

Simon. He is here. 

May. For the last time, I am determined. 
(Matt rtms in c.) 

Matt. No letter, Roy's wife, and that's the best news I 
could bring. For as he has not written 'tis a proof he's on 
the road home. Dear old boy ! How glad we shall all be 
to see him. {Pause.) Ah! what's the matter? 

May. When a spy is caught in his enemy's camp, what 
is done with him ? 

Matt. He's strung to a tree, without judge or jury. 

May. When a rogue is caught playing the honest man, 
in a peaceful and loving family, what should be his fate "i 

Matt. He should be turned adrift, and shunned forever 
more. 

May. Right {rising). You have sentenced yourself. 
This house is no longer your home. 

Matt. No longer — my home ; — why — what is this ? 

May {rises). Matt Winsor, listen to me. You entered 
this house a miserable, drunken vagabond. You were ten- 
derly cared for, because you were our Roy's comrade. We 
trusted you, confided in you, and you — like a viper — turned 
and stung the hand that fed you. 

Matt. No, no; 'tis false. I have repaid trust with 
trust. 

May. Indeed! As you repaid the trust of that poor 
woman now dying in Belleview Hospital. {Enter Bess l.) 
Your wife. 



34 COMRADES. 

Matt ias^itated). My wife — my wife? 

May. Ah ! your agitation is confession, and yet you told 
me you had no wife. Wretch ! you dare not face my hus- 
band's flashing eye, with this infamy known to him. You 
drove a noble fellow away by your accusations. Think you 
Roy, who could not bear his presence, will suffer a greater 
criminal to rest beneath his roof. And what greater crimi- 
nal can there be than he who deserts his wife : his trusting 
wife ? 

Matt. Stop, stop, I say. You must not make me hate 
you, for you are Roy's wife. My friend's wife. Taunt me 
not. I will go out into the cold world once more. It's 
only a step, and I am the outcast, the tramp, again. 

Bess {runs to Matt). No, no, you must not go. Roy 
will soon return. 

May. Let him face him if he dares. {Goes ii.) 
' Matt. Fear not, I will not face him. I told you, Bess, 
I was not wanted here. I have come between man and 
wife. A part of the affection which should have been all hers 
has gone out to the man who, in auld lang syne, tr'ed to be a 
true friend. Let it pass. For all your kindness to me, 
accept my thanks. I shall trouble you no more. {Goes up 

tOQ) 

Bess. Oh, Matt ! Don't leave us. {Gives Jiaiids) 

Matt {kissing them). It is right, little one, we have been 
very happy, too happy for so poor a wretch as I. Roy's 
wife, hear me before I leave your house. I spoke the truth 
to you. I have no wife: 

Simon {co7nes down). That's a lie, and I can prove it. 

Matt. Ah ! this is your work. 

Simon. I own it. There's nothing shabby about me. 
{Goes R. back.) 

Matt. I spoke the truth. Years ago I went to battle 
for my country, leaving at home my wife and child. Oh, 
how I loved them, bitterly I knew when returning from my 
first campaign, I found my wife had fled with my dearest 
friend, leaving our child to the care of strangers, vdio had 
taken her far, far away. In vain I sought her. She was 
gone. Oh, Bess, if you have found any tenderness in the 
rough soldier's heart, thank this for it; for out of grace 
and gentleness I had fashioned an image of my lost child 
which you resembled, little one. 



COMRADES. , 35 

May. Oh, what do I hear ? 

Matt. Heaven bless you. Heaven bless all beneath 
this roof ; and heaven help the poor wanderer now. {Goes out 
door c.) 

Bess. Oh Matt, Matt, stay with us. 

May. Matt, Matt, come back. {Cross to L.) 

Matt {ttinis in doorway). No ; you have driven me out, 
as I drove out another. We are quits. (May sinks into 
chair R. of table.) 

{Exit c.) 

Simon. He's gone. {Cojhcs down r.) 

{Enter Nancy, r. i. e.) 

Bess. Oh May, how could you be so cruel ! {Falls into 
May's amis.) 

May. I thought it my duty, Bess. 

Nancy. Who's driven out now ? 

Simon {comes down). Matt Winsor ; and I did it, Nancy. 

Nancy. You? 'T was a shabby trick. 

Roy {outside). May, Ma)\ Home again. 

May. Roy, Roy, at last. ( Jumps up.) 
{Enter RoY c.) 

Roy. Ah, my darling. {Catches her in his arms,) 

May {rmis into his arms). Oh, Roy. 

Roy. Bless you, sweetheart : it's good to meet you once 
again. And Bess bright as ever, give me a kiss. 

Bess. A dozen. {Kisses him.) 

Roy. That's sweet; and, in return, I've brought you 
something nice. 

Bess. Good news ? {Goes r.) 

Roy. Yes : in the original package. Come in Marcus. 
(Marcus rims in c.) 

Marcus. Bess, my darling. 

Bess {runs into his arms). Oh, Marcus. 

Roy. Yes; we've had excellent luck: just at the last 
moment, too. We had about given up in despair when the 
excellent but thick-headed senior partner of the concern, 
happened to pull out a drawer in the safe, and there, closely 
packed behind it was the missing bills. Marcus was a hero, 
at once. I had hard work to bring him away ; but here he 
is. Ah, Nancy, how are you? {Goes R. and shakes hands 
with her. Bess and Graves comes to l.) 

Nancy. Hearty, thank you sir. 



36 COMRADES. 

Roy. And this is my new gardener {shakes hands witrt 
hhn). How does the garden flourish ? 

Simon. Splendidly, thank you, sir. 

Roy {returns to c). Well, and how has my little wife 
spent the dull days ? 

May. Trying her best to kill time, and bring this happy 
day nearer. 

Roy. Well, I'm rejoiced to find you are well, and Matt — 
where's Matt? He surely should be on hand to give his 
comrade a merry welcome. {All stand silent.) How's 
this, where is he ? Is he ill ? 

May {with aft effort). He is gone, Roy. 

Roy. Gone ? what, left the house ? 

May. Oh, Roy, he is unworthy of your regard. He has 
deceived us. He has a wife living. 

Roy. Indeed ! How did you hear this .? 

Simon. I, sir, was the humble instrument of his ex- 
posure. 

Roy. Oh, you were. 

Simon. I was told by a poor, dying woman that he was 
her husband, and I thought it my duty to inform Mrs. Man- 
ning of his duplicity. It was a painful duty, sir, but I never 
shirk my duty. In that line there's nothing shabby about 
me. 

Roy. Oh ! then it's my duty to inform you that your ser- 
vices as gardener here, will no longer be required. 

Simon. Oh ! {aside) here's gratitude. 

Nancy. Serves you right, Claude Meddlenot. 

Roy. And so poor Matt, in shame, took himself off? 

May {confused). No — Roy — you're not quite right 
there ; for I — I — drove him away. 

Roy. You, — May ; : — you drove the man, who once saved 
your husband's life, from his house ? 

May. I, — forgive me, Roy, — I thought I was right. 
{Goes towards hi^n.) 

Roy. Don't come near me. Driven my old friend out? 
Do you know what that means? — disgrace for him, shame 
for me. He will die in the gutter. No, no ; it shall not be. 
I'll not eat or sleep until I find him. 

May. Oh, Roy, you will not leave me. {Throws herself 
upon his neck.) 

Roy. For his sake. May, yes. Do not hold me. You 



COMRADES. 37 

have done a fearful wrong, as you will one day learn. {She 
unfolds her arms and staggers to jnantel.) My brave, old 
comrade. You have struggled hard for a better life. Strike 
out, struggle on. You shall not sink. I will save you yet. 
{Runs out c.) 
May staggers down to chair r. of table, face on table. 
Bess runs and leajis over her. Marcus, c. watching them. 
Nancy r. points up stage, and Simon, w.ith a woeful face, 
looks at her. 

Curtain. 



ACT III. 

Scene as before. Fire btiniing in fireplace. May in arm- 
chair before fire^ half turned toward audience, gazing into 
the fire. Light on her from fire. Bess at piano playing, 
'■'■'' Tis the last rose of summer.'''' Marcus has arm on 
piano, looking down at her. Study lamp lighted on table, 
L. c. Roy seated l. of table reading paper. Curtains at 
windows down. Chair r. of table, as music ceases : — 

Marcus. Thank you, Bess. "'Tis the last rose of sum- 
mer," to-night we pluck : the last of our deliglitful courtship, 
to be replaced with orange blossoms, fit symbols of the fruits 
of happiness, we shall then garner for the future. Ah, 
Bess, what blissful days are in store for us. 

Roy {eyes on paper). Poor devil. 

Marcus. Eh? Did you speak to me, Manning ? 

Roy. Not I. " One more unfortunate " here {tapping 
paper). Found dead in a doorway, with an empty bottle 
smelling strongly of "laudanum " beside him, — wrapped in 
an army overcoat. Ah, so they go. Fighting bravely the 
enemy of their country in war, overthrown by the enemy in 
peace. 

May. Oh, Roy, could it have been — 

Roy. No one we have an interest in, I hope, May. 

May. I was thinking of — 

Roy. One whose name is no more spoken here. I know 
to whom you allude. May. It was not him. 

May. Then you have news ? 

Roy. I can give you no tidings of him. When three 
months ago I returned' from my search, we agreed to forget 
him. Let us abide by our compact. It can be no pleasure 
to you : 'tis painful to me {rises). When a man forgets all 
the obligations of friendship, withholds confidence from his 
sworn comrade, and deliberately acts a lie, he no longer 
holds a place in honest hearts. 

May. Oh, Roy, so bitter. 

Roy {crossing to her chair). To you, May, I owe it all. 
You, with your clear, woman's vision, pierced the mask 



COMRADES. 39 

and disclosed the deception {bitterly). I thank you. {Goes 
lip to ivindoiu and looks out.) 

May. Bitter, bitter. I have wounded his dear heart by 
my folly. Will he ever forgive me 'i 

Roy {co7nes down). It's a blustering night. {Rests hand 
on back of May's chair.) That's a glorious blaze, May. 
Pity I cannot stay and enjoy it. 

May. Are you going out ? 

Bess. Not to-night, Roy? 

Marcus {comes down to chair vacated by Roy, and takes 
up paper). "There's no place like home," Manning. 

Roy. Right, Marcus: especially if it's somebody's else 
home, with a particular attraction in the shape of a pretty 
girl. Now, don't press me to stay, for you know you and 
Bess are dying to be alone. 

Marcus. Gammon. 

Roy. Rather say backgammon, for with two that makes 
home a par-o-dice. There's but one will miss me. 

May. Oh, Roy, must you go .? 

Roy. 'Tis Wednesday night : my evening out. 

May. 'Tis Christmas eve, and to-morrow is — 

Roy. The anniversary of our wedding. May. Did you 
think I had forgotten that .? 

May. No, not forgotten it, Roy, but on the eve of — 

Roy. Such a glorious anniversary, you think I should 
remain at home. No, May, duty calls me, — a religious duty, 
— which I would not disregard even for the sake of your dear 
company. 

May. Roy, you are withholding confidence from me. 
You will not tell me why you go, where you go? Is that 
right ? 

Roy {laughing). Ha! ha! ha! Inquisitive female. No, 
it's all wrong ; but that I may right it I go, and you may 
have the blaze all to yourself. Imagine yourself Cinderella 
among the embers, and wish the fairy godmother w^ould drop 
down the chimney to keep you company. Now tell me what 
would be your first request ? 

May. That my husband would have no secrets I could 
not share. 

Roy. That's a very sensible request. What next? 

May. That in our midst, home again, she would place 
the wanderer, — your comrade, — Matt Winsor. 



40 COMRADES. 

Roy. May ! 

May. With all my heart I wish it, Roy. That man's 
fate, the possibility of what he may have become, terrifies 
me. Think you I cannot feel how that wild act of mine has 
shadowed your existence. When he left, driven from your 
doors by me, something went out of our happy life, I would 
give the world to reclaim. 

Roy. May, do you doubt my love for you ? 

May. No, no ; not that Roy, Not one look of reproach : 
not one word, for what I have done, ever tender, thoughtful, 
patient. Oh, Roy, I do not deserve it. {Covers face with 
hands.) 

Roy. May, you shall know all {walks to table). No, no, 
the secret is not mine. I must be patient ; she must suffer. 
{Marcus looks up at him froin paper). Well, what's the 
matter with you ? 

Marcus. Manning, old fellow, I'm afraid you're going 
over to the enemy. (Bess comes dow7i back of table.) 

Roy. It's about time, when the enemy — as you style her 
— is a sweet, little woman, stung with remorse, and the at- 
tacking forces men, strong men, who ought to be ashamed 
of themselves : I don't like it. 

Marcus. Then strike your flag at once. There's only 
one thing to prevent it. 

Roy. What's that.? 

Marcus. Your promise. 

Bess. What in the world are you talking about — you 
two? 

Roy {turning away). Bah ! that girl would break up a 
council of war, with her sharp ears and inquisitive tongue. 
( Goes over to May's chair. Bess talks with Marcus in dumb 
show.) Look up. May. I must go ; but this night shall be 
the last. Before )'0U sleep you shall know all, and I will 
ask forgiveness for my cruelty. Come, get my coat : that's 
a dear. Time flies. I must be off. 

May {rising.) You will return early? 

Roy. As 1 always do. {Exit May, door L., Roy, hand 
on back of armchair watches her off.) 'Tis a hard lesson, 
wife of mine, but through the tears, I see the smile, and 
behind the clouds, the sunlight, that shall bring lasting peace 
forevermore. Halloa, you two whispering? I don't like 
that. 



COMRADES. 41 

Bess. Third parties seldom do. I like it : that's enough. 

Roy. And so does Marcus. He looks as happy as 
though to-morrow were to be a holiday for him. 

Bess. 'Twill be a holy day, for us. 

Roy. You're to be married, to-morrow : to be enslaved. 
Ah, what will become of you two ? 

Bess. We two will become one, that's all. 

Marcus. Yes, the sum total of my bliss will be a unit. 

Roy. How you cypher that. Matrimonial figuring by 
addition makes two one, subtracts sweets from added bless- 
ings, and multiplies comforts by dividing labors. That's the 
slate from which nothing can be wiped, but by fractures. 
Well bless you my children. I hope you will be as happy as 
May and I, and never quarrel. 

Bess. And have no secrets — 

Roy. Ahem ! (Aside,) From you, impossible. 

Bess. And have no going out of nights. Hey, Marcus. 

Marcus. Most certainly not. 

Roy. Hark, from the graves a doleful sound." Charity 
calls me out. 

Bess. Charity begins at home. 

Roy. And ends there ; but if it be true, it's line of duty, 
between the beginning and the ending, describes a circle 
that, like the equator, embraces the whole world. 

Marcus. That's very good. Manning, 

Bess. But you've no right to break the home circle, and 
leave your poor wife here alone. 

Roy. Alone ? Nonsense ! when she has you and Mar- 
cus to amuse her. 

Marcus. Oh, we're going to have a game of billiards. 

Roy. Billiards, a ateriovis game for lovers. But there's , 
lots of "kisses " in it. Hey, Bess.^ 

Bess. Oh, I could scratch you. 

Roy. I'll have a "run" before you do. Here's May. 
{Enter door L. with Roy's coat and hat.) Thank you. 
( Takes coat and puts it on.) You won't be lonesome } 

May. No, indeed. 

Roy {takes hat from her.) That's right. Bess and Mar- 
cus are going to play billiards. You don't play, you know; 
but you can count. 

Marcus. Yes ; {aside) one too many. 

Bess. Of course ; {aside) and spoil the game. 



42 COMRADES. 

Roy. I've been giving the young people a lesson on 
charity. Bess beheves it begins at home, and now she has 
an excellent opportunity to prove her theory, by forgetting 
that "two is company, and three is none." Good-bye. 
{Kisses May, and exits c. May follows him to door.) 

May {turns back and stops c). I shall know all to-night. 
He said it. I am content. I doubt not I shall laugh at my 
folly, when I know the truth : only a little shadow flung 
across the brightness of our home, so hard to bear.? Heaven 
pity those to whom the sunlight never comes. {Exit door L.) 

Bess {feebly). May, May, you're not going? {Louder.) 
Why, Marcus, she didn't hear me. 

Marcus. No wonder; the call was very faint. I'll call 
her. {Rises and goes to door L.) 

Bess {rtins up and briiigs him down c.) No, no. I don't 
think she cares for company. 

Marcus {putting his arm aroicnd her waist). I'm sure 
we do not, Bess. 

Bess. Marcus, what do you suppose sent Roy out to- 
night ? 

Marcus. Well, I think I could guess. 

Bess. Oh, you could. Isn't that splendid.'' Tell me, 
quick. 

Marcus. Ah ! but it's a secret. 

Bess, Oh, dear ! now you are beginning to be mysterious. 
Remember sir : we are to have no secrets. 

Marcus. Quite right ; and as you are not to learn this, 
we shall have no secrets still — 

Bess {pouting). Marcus, you're as bad as Roy. 

Marcus. If I am no worse than that estimable man, then 
you will receive a treasure to-morrow. 

Bess. Take care, sir : " there's many a slip 'twixt the cup 
and the lip." 

Marcus. Don't be alarmed : you shall have the treasure, 
Bess. Never mind the cup ; the lips will satisfy me {kisses 
her) now, and to-morrow my cup of happiness will be full. 

Bess. Ah ! but I may change my mind before to- 
morrow. 

Marcus. Twenty times, if you like .? but to-morrow you 
will only change — your name. 

Bess. And my dress. You haven't asked me what I am 
to be married in. 



COMRADES. 43 

Marcus. I know, — in church. 

Bess. Oh, provoking ! have you no curiosity to know 
how your bride will look ? 

Marcus. I know you will look lovely. Let others ad- 
mire the setting, I shall have eyes only for the jewel. Come, 
a game of billiards. {Goes to fable.) 

Bess. Shall I call May? 

Marcus. No, I'll call Nancy {strikes bell on table) to 
light the billiard room. May will find us when she needs us. 
{Enter Nancy, r. i, e.) Nancy, be kind enough to light 
the billiard room, will you ? 

Nancy. My gracious ! you're not going to play billiards, 
to-night ? 

Bess (r. c). And why not, Nancy? 

Nancy. And go' ng to be married, to-morrow? {Crosses 
stage to I. e. l.) Well, I never ! Better be preparing your 
minds with something solemn. The book of Job, now, will 
prepare you for trials, and there's a heap of comfort, at such 
times, in the book of Revelations. {Exit i. e. l.) 

Marcus. Well, our good Nancy takes rather a gloomy 
view of marriage ? 

Bess. Yes, poor thing; she's no such happiness* to look 
forward to. I think she's a little ashamed of her conduct to 
Simon Stone. He's not been near her for three months. 

Marcus. Since he threw up gardening, on so short a 
trial. But Simon loves her still, I'm sure. {Enter Simon, 
c.) He'll turn up in good time. There's nothing shabby 
about Simon Stone. 

Simon. You may bet your bottom dollar on that, every 
time. How are you Mark? 

Marcus. Holloa ! speak of the — 

Simon. Don't mention him {gives hand) : we can't say 
any good of him. {Turns to Bess.) Miss Bess, your most 
obedient {boivs)., allow me, in feeble words, but heartfelt 
gush, to congratulate you and Mark on the happiest day of 
your life, — to-morrow. 

Bess. Oh, thank you. 

Simon {presenting box). With hopes and wishes, for 
loaves and fishes : that is, prosperity. 

Bess. Thank you {opens box). Diamonds? Oh, Mr. 
Stone, you are too generous. {Comes to Mark at table : he 
looks at them.) 



44 COMRADES. 

Marcus. Why, Si! old fellow, this is a princely gift. 
What is your calling, now? 

Simon. My what is it? 

Marcus. Vour trade? 

Simon. Bother trade ! Don't speak of it. I'm above all 
that, you know. I'm in the Ring now, 

Maiicus. The Circus Ring? 

Simon.. Do I look like an acrobat? 

Marcus. The Prize Ring? 

Simon. Prize humbug! Do I look like a bruiser? No, 
Mark: I'm a member of one of those mysterious rings, you 
know, which surround the government, keep it in its place, 
without which this glorious union would go to smash. 
Where's Mr. Manning ? I must see him at once. 

Bess. He's out, but will soon return, 

Simon. Then I will wait. 

Marcus. Look here, Simon, it's rather queer that you 
want to see Mr. Manning. I should say Nancy would suit 
you better. 

Simon. Nancy? — what Nancy? — which Nancy? 

Bess. Nancy Nipper, to be sure : have you forgotten her ? 

Simon. Oh — ah — yes — yes, I remember there was a 
young thing, rather smart, somewhat attractive, about here ; 
but when one gets into " rings," hob-nobbing with senators 
and nabobs, one forgets these {snaps fingers) these little 
trifles. Nancy ? yes, yes. 

Marcus. Well, I'm rather glad to know that you are not 
in pursuit of her this time, for, between you and me, Nancy 
has a chance to make a good match now, with one who is 
dying for her. 

Simon (6Vt-67Vt'<//)'). Youdon't mean it ! Dying is he ? Til 
finish him ! After Nancy — my Nancy ! Who is he ? 

Marcus. Ha ! ha ! ha ! he's a man who's got above trade, 
you know: a member of one of those mysterious rings, you 
understand. Ha! ha! ha! Si, — old fellow, — it won't do: I 
can read you. You're on the old trail. {Comes to i. E. L.) 
Come, Bess. 

Bess. Oblige me by making yourself comfortable, Mr. 
Stone. {Crosses to Marcus.) 

Marcus. Yes ; and forget those {snaps fingers) little 
trifles. Ha! ha! ha! (Bess and Marcus exit\. e. l.) 

Simon {stands c. looking after them). Ha! ha! ha 



COMRADES. 45 

{inockingly)\ I'm on the old trail, am I? Can't pull wool 
over his eyes. He's right. Nancy is the dear I'm hunting : 
the Nipper that will satisfy my thirsty spirit. They do say 
money is one of the sinew^s of war, the strongest and the 
mightiest to win. If that's so, I'm on my muscle. That's a 
glorious old blaze. Simon, make yourself comfortable {sits in 
a?-7n chair). She told me to, and when a pretty girl asks a favor, 
there's nothing shabby about me. {Sils before Jire, ivanning 
his ha7ids, chair with back to l. Enter Nancy, l. I. E.) 

Nancy. I declare, I'm mortified. To see that couple 
billing and cooing, and she a little thing, who's only just left 
her dolls, a-going to be married, and I scrubbing along in 
single blessedness, because I hadn't the sense to take Simon 
Stone when I had the chance. Plague take the fellow ! no 
doubt he's given me up, when if he had only stuck to it he 
might have seen {c?'osses to Ji replace), widi half an eye, I was 
dying to throw myself {seizes back of SIxMOn's chair, whirls 
it 7'onnd, and bounces into his lap, as she speaks this) into 
his arms. {Screa?ns, jumps up, and runs!..) Mercy sakes I 
who's that ? 

Simon. Needn't rise on my account, Nancy. 

Nancy. What.? — no — yes — it is. Why, Simon.? 

Simon. Why Simon .? because I was christened so, I 
'spose, Nancy. Well, how are you? You see I'm down 
here on a little business with Mr. Manning. Didn't think 
of seeing you. 'Sposed you must be married and settled 
before this, Nancy. 

Nancy. Do you mean to say that you are not here on 
purpose to see me ? 

Simon. You don't suppose a fellow is made of ijijy rub- 
ber, to bounce up after he's been thrown, and run after the 
same girl that bounced him, do you? No, Nancy; when 
I quit gardening so suddenly, I made up my mind that 
chasing you was not a business that would pay to stick to. 

Nancy. Good riddance, Mr. Stone. 

Simon. Thank you, Nancy. Just at that point in my 
hitherto unfortunate career. Uncle Brim died, and left me a 
legacy. 

Nancy. Who's Uncle Brim ? 

Simon. Uncle Brimer Stone. We called him Brim, for 
short — Brim Stone; pretty good name for him, for he was 
a regular old Satan, — well, he left me a thousand dollars. 



46 COMRADES. 

Nancy. A thousand dollars ? 

Simon. Exactly. Now, says I, vSimon, you've been a roll- 
ing stone long enough. You've got a nest agg: sit still, 
and see what will come of it. 

Nancy. Well, what did .? 

Simon. Calker Goodwin, the broker, came and wanted 
to borrow it : a genial fellow after he found I had the money, 
though he did cut me a week before ; but then legacies, like 
death, level all distinctions. 

Nancy. And you let him have it.? 

Simon. No ; declined v/ith thanks, as the editors tell the 
poets. Then he told me of a good investment. " The Iris,'- 

Nancy. Irish what? 

Simon. "The Iris," — a silver mine, — somewhere or no- 
where, it don't matter which. The stock was way down : 
eighty cents. Cal said it would rise in three days : bade 
me go in and win. So in I went, invested my thousand in 
Iris, and in three days it was way up to ten dollars, in three 
weeks to forty ; then I got scared. 

Nancy. Scared ? 

Simon. Yes ; the thing looked too big. I said to myself, 
some poor fellow will get into this, 'twill bust and up goes 
his all And then I'd been reading about rich men's not being 
able to enter the eye of a camel, you know; and says I, Til 
be no party to any such business. There's nothing shabby 
about me. I'll sell out. Sold the next day at forty, and 
three days after the Iris was all in my eye : it busted. 

Nancy, But you didn't. 

Simon. No, Nancy; I made forty thousand dollars. I've 
got it now, and it's the thing I mean to stick to — 

Nancy. Why, Simon, you're a rich man. 

Simon. Oh, so-so, so-so. You wait until we get our rail- 
road, though. 

Nancy. Our railroad ? 

Simon. That's one of my rings. I'm in lots of 'em. 

Nancy. Where does this railroad run ? 

Simon. Into my pockets, if government will help it. 
You see it's not laid out yet, but the papers are in proper 
trim for a grant. 

Nancy. Grant ! what's he got to do with it ? 

Simon. Oh, you're simple, you are : it's no use to talk to 
you of these great schemes. Can I do anything for you, Nancy. 



COMRADES. Ay 

Nancy. What do you mean ? 

Simon. Well, I'm not proud, Nancy; and when I look at 
you the memory of departed days is strong upon me 

Nancy (/mder/y). O, Simon. 
^ Simon. ^ And if there's any 3-oung man you want to boost 
into a busmess that would suit you — 
Nancy {stendy). Simon! 

SiMON._ I'd hke to help him to a start. I can't foro-et 
your helpmg me to a good many. 

Nancy {fiercely), Simon Stone ! you're just as hateful 
as you can be. You've got money, and now come here to 
put on airs before me. I knew you when you didn't know 
where the next meal was coming from : when you hadn't a 
whole rag to your back. Keep your money, and make the 
best ot It. I 11 have nothing more to do with you. (Crosses 
to R. I. E.) 

Simon. Where are you going, Nancy ? 
Nancy. To the kitchen, where I 'belong. I'm no fit 
associate for a member of the ring. 
Simon {rising). Then I'll go too. 

Nancy. Indeed ! a dirty kitchen is no place for a mem- 
ber of the ring. {Exit R. i. e.) 

Simon. They're in all kinds of dirty business anyhow 
Don t thmk, then, that will prevent me. Well, I've made 
her about as mad as I dare. She's a smart girl, Nancy is 
IS, and she'll find that, with or without money, there's nothin<r 
shabby about me. {Exit r. i. e. May runs in from 
door L.) -^ 

May. Roy. Roy, where.? — I must have dreamed, when 
I threw myself upon the bed. Such a horrid dream. 
Where are they all.? {Looks off \..) There's a light in 
the bilhard room, and Marcus and Bess are there. I'll 
go to them {goes to, i. e. l). No, how happy they look; 
I should be in the way. Dear Bess ; to-morrow takes her 
from me, and gives her to another. May she be happy ! 
She will never know my foolish fears for her made so much 
mischief. {Goes slovjiy to chair at fi.replace, stands with her 
hand on back of it, looking into fire.) And to-night I shall 
know all. Ah, Roy, my husband, you know not how those 
simple words comfort me. In their fulfilment I feel there is 
a power to lift a burden hard to bear. {Sits in chair, half 
turned to fi^re.) And to-night I dreamed of him — the out- 



48 



COMRADES. 



cast. {Soft music. Matt Winsor opens door c. softly, catches 
hold of side of doorway and steadies himself appears drunk.) 
I thought he appeared before me in all his rags, as once he 
came (Matt staggers to ottoinan near window, catches at 
top of it a7id steadies himself eyes on the fireplace), wretched 
as then, the same drunken look in his eyes. (Matt staggers 
to table in sa?ne way.) Oh, how I trembled as he fixed his 
eyes upon me and said : 

Matt. Roy's wife (hie), how are you .^ 

May. Ah, 'tis he. {Sinks back into chair.) 

Matt. 'Scuse me. You did (hie) n't spect me. 

May. Oh yes, yes, you are very welcome : we have 
sought you — Roy has. I longed for you to come to tell you 
how sorry I am for the wrong I did you. 

Matt. No such thing (hie) : you did me no wrong, I 
de (hie) ceived you, and you turned me out like a dog — a 
stray dog — just what I was. What right had I 'mong 
hones' folks. 

May. The right every man has to recognition when he 
attempts to shake off the shackles of habit, and be a man 
again. 

Matt. Jes' so ; but you see it's no use (hie). I fell 
again. 

May. O Matt — Roy's comrade — tell me you forgive 
me. 

Matt. Well, you lis (hie) 'n to me. You told me to go 
to my wife — my deserted wife (hie). I went; she died in 
my arms. {Sei'ious, forgetting himselfi) Poor woman ! she 
had fallen by the way. I couldn't raise her, but I did the 
best I could ; I made a pillow of the breast where beat a 
heart that once was all hers, She died there : died like a 
child sinking to rest. {Weeps.) 

May {surprised). Why, Matt! 

Matt {qiiickly assuming drunken 7nanner). Well (hie), 
she died — she did. Poor Mary Randall ! 

May. Randall.^ {Rises.) No, no, that was my name before 
I married Roy. 

Matt {hie). Was it ? 'twas mine before I met Roy. 
That's something you didn't (hie) find out. 

May. Oh, heavens ! if it should be ! Well, well, go on. 

Matt. That's all : she (hie) died. 

May. But tell me of yourself. Who are you.'* 



COMRADES. 49 

Matt. A tramp (hie) now ; a soldier once ; a happy- 
husband and father (hie) long ago. 

May. a father ? 

Matt. Yes, I went to war, left them in a happy home ; 
came back in a year to find the mother flown, the child (hie) 
gone with strangers. Then I went — I went to battle again 
to sell my life cheap (hie) ; no use, I couldn't die. I changed 
my name — the name she had disgraced — and met Roy. 
You know the rest (hie). It's only a tramp's story (hie). 
Who cares for him ? 

May. But the child.? 

Matt. Oh, I've found her (hie): she's all right. 

May. Thank heaven ! my fears are groundless. 

Matt. Yes, I found her, indeed, happy: a child to be 
proud of; but how could I face her (hie)? I, a drunkard and 
a tramp. 

May. Oh, she would forgive everything : run into your 
arms, and weep with joy upon your breast. 

Matt {?'ises.) Would you do that ? 

May. I } 

Matt. Would you, surrounded by luxury and comfort, 
happy in the love of a kind husband, would you take that 
man to your heart, present him to your husband ? 

May {rises). I } 

Matt. Yes, you: May Manning, — ^^onee May Randall 
— you who turned me from your doors — ponder well; for 
all the wretchedness and shame that cHngs to me, is part and 
parcel of — your father. 

May. Ah ! {Staggers to table and falls into chair r. of 
if, her face on her arm on table. Matt passes to back of 
chair at fj^eplace, and with hand upon it looks at her.) I 
have told you the truth. As I am, I have come to you, the 
father to his child. I go. If you, remembering what I am, 
what I have been, and what I may yet become, desire my 
presence, seek me. If you would escape the shame which 
must come with the exposure, forget me, and my lips are 
closed forever. {Looks at her fe7tderly, opens his ar?ns^ and 
is about to step towards her., stops, shakes his head, and 
steals out door R. 3d E.) 

May {after a sho7't pause raises her head, a7id falls back 
in chair). Oh, shame ! misery ! disgrace ! I, that could not 
warmly greet my husband's comrade when he came, because 



50 COMRADES. 

of pride ; who turned him from these doors, jealous of the 
kindly heart that turned to him, have found my punishment 
at last. " If you would escape the shame," he said, " forget 
me." {Rises.) My father ? no ! no ! Come shame, come dis- 
grace, the wanderer shall find rest, the father find a champion 
in his daughter's love. {Goes l. Enter Roy c.) 

Roy. Ah, my darling. You see I've kept my word. 

May {runs up a7id throws herself on his breast, c). O 
Roy, Roy, never so welcome. O Roy, I am so happy. 
{Weeps). 

Roy. Well, well, little wife, tears are not signs of happi- 
ness. Let me get off my coat. (May tur^is and comes to 
table. Roy removes coat ajtd throws hat and coat on otto- 
majt, then comes down to chair at fireplace., and watches her., 
hand on back of it. May stands at table looking dow?i.) 

Roy {aside). She bears it bravely. {Aloud.) Well, May, 
now for my promise : to tell you the mighty secret. 
{Comes toward her.) 

May. No, Roy, hear me first. {Falls on her knees.) 
Hear my confession. {Enter Bess and Marcus, l. i. E.) 

Roy {quickly raising her). Hush, wife ! listeners. 

May {steps back in line with door, 3 e. r). I care not : 
hear it all. (RoY goes to mantel.) One whom I thought 
dead, one whom my mother wronged, comes now in want 
and wretchedness, not to claim my duty as he has a right, but 
with a nobleness that puts to shame my pride, to seal his 
lips, that, with a word, could make me blush before the world. 
Do you hear me, Roy ? 

Roy. I am listening. May. 

May. Then seek him. It may be in dens of vice, 
among the fallen and debased ; but seek him, and when you 
find him say, I wait with loving heart to greet him home, — 
his home for evermore. 

{Enter Matt, door 3. e. r.) 

Matt. You need not seek him : he's here. 

May {throwijtg herself into his arms). My father! 

Matt. My child ! My dear, dear daughter ! 

May. Roy, you hear. 

Roy. Yes : I've heard too much. The weighty secret is 
out at last. Matt, old fellow, you organized this campaign : 
after your treatment here, you have a right to revenge ; but 
to me it has been a meaner battle than ever I hoped to en- 
gage in. 



COMRADES. 



51 



Matt. 'Twas but to test a daughter's love, Rov " All's 
fair in love and war." ^ 

May. ThQn you have been deceiving me. O Roy ' 

Roy. I couldn't help it. 'Twas Matt's work : we've all 
been engaged in it. 

Marcus. Yes : all of us. 

Bess. Well, I never; it's the first I've heard of it. 

dut ^^' "^^'^ ^^^^ ^^^* ^^^^' ^^^^"' ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ 
Bess. They're not trained to secret service. (Runs u^ 

to Matt.) O Matt, I'm so glad to get you back. {Shakes 

naftds with him.) 

SiMox {outside R.) Come along, Nancy, I'll make it all 

Roy. ^ Ah, who have we here .^ 

{Enter Simon and Nancy, arm in ar7n r. i. e.) 
Simon. Mr. Manning, I came down here as a bearer of 
dispatches. 

Roy. Ah, for me .^ 

Simon. To you; but not for vou. {Steps up to Matt) 
Mr. Randall, I was guilty of a mean act towards you once 
Matt {o;ives hand). Never rnind, Simon : you've been a 
good friend since. 

Simon. Well, but I do mind: it weighed upon me. I 
don't like to be shabby, and so, as I'm in the rin^, I'm bound 
to wipe that out {gives packet). There, sir, is a^commission 
as postmaster; it's a good one. I've influence, you know 
Jf„^°".^?^'^ ^'^^ ^^' ^"^ want something better, just say so; 
ril fix It for you, for I'm in the ring — in the ring. {Strtcts 
down to Nancy, r.) 

Nancy. You told me you'd have nothing more to do 
with rings. 

Simon. Did I .? Well, I'll keep my word ; but there's 
one more ring we can't do without. {Takes ring from his 
pocket and puts it on her finger.) This, for instance, is our 
engagement ring. 

Nancy. Why, it's a diamond, Simon. 
Simon. It is, Nancy — a buster. This shall be followed 
by the wedding ring, and then the teething ring. 

Nancy {clcips hand over his mouth). Simon Stone ! 
Simon {takes her hand and draws it through his arjn). 
You shall have them all, Nancy. There's nothing shabby 
about me. (Roy goes up to l. <?/"May.) 



52 COMRADES. 

Roy. Well, little wife, are you satisfied ? 

May. Can you ask it, Roy.-* {Gives him L. hattd.) 

Matt. Ah, old fellow, the dear one was hardly pressed ; 
she fought bravely, and won a peaceful victory. To her be 
all the glory. 

May. She has stepped between the comrades of old days 
only, I trust, to be the link that binds them closer. {Gives 
R. hand to Matt.) Hereafter, in the battle of life, we three 
march in line, joy and sorrow, victory and defeat, to one, to 
all. Comrades in prosperity, comrades in adversity, ever 
true, sworn comrades. 
Simon, Nancy, r. Matt, May, Roy, c. Marcus, Bess, l. 

Curtain. 



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